


An S, On His Back?

by owls_and_horses



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Crack, F/M, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Tattoos, tattoo artist Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 01:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owls_and_horses/pseuds/owls_and_horses
Summary: With friends like his, bachelor and bachelorette parties always end badly.Always.





	An S, On His Back?

**Author's Note:**

> So this isn't my best work but it's an idea I had like, forever and I needed to type it out before I exploded. Sorry for any mistakes, I have no beta right now so I'm editing to the best of my ability.  
> Happy reading.

“I honestly can't believe it! Di’s getting all married! To a man no less! What happened to ‘all men are worthless pigs?’ What happened to the ‘I’ll never date a man as long as I live!’”

Clark watched as Barry stalked over to Diana, still shouting, with what must be his fifth glass of whiskey in the last hour. Clark wondered why the hell Barry was still standing, he had drunk copious amounts of alcohol that evening, but Barry had a fast metabolism and was as much a lightweight as Clark, which is to say, not at all.

The evening had started off promising, or as promising as a bachelorette party ever was. And yes, he went the bachelorette party, and not the bachelor’s. There was a bit of a fight over that, over which person’s party he should attend seeing that they were on the same night. Steve had said that all the males should be at his party while Diana had disagreed strongly.

“Clark should be at my party,” she had said in her no nonsense voice. Her dress was divine and her hair flowed smoothly down her back. She stood in her ‘I am the advocate of Women’s Rights’ power pose, and looked down at her fiancé.

“Yeah but angel-”

“He’d enjoy my party more, especially the strippers.”

“Yeah but so would half of your other male friends! Like most of them are bi at least”

“He's also my best friend.”

Steve sighed, “Well I- I can't argue with that. Clark?”

Clark, who was perfectly fine sitting out the lovers spat, looked for the most diplomatic way to answer.

“Ummm sure, whatever you decide. But I’ll probably really enjoy the strippers at Di’s party more.”

“Then it’s settled,” Diana declared, voice booming and smile bright, “Clark comes with me!”

“Sure angel, whatever you want. Not the bit about the strippers, you were kidding right. There will be no strippers, right?”

Diana smirked at patted his cheek.

Diana wasn't kidding much to Clark’s (and the rest of the room) delight. He was edging for drunk as they stumbled out of the apartment towards the club and he definitely wasn't the only one.

They slipped in the VIP lounge with grins wider than their faces and liquid courage in their bones. The night was good and got a lot better when they saw the bachelor’s party enter the same club.

The night spiralled even more from there, everyone knocking back glasses in the lounge.

Barry had obviously consumed enough the make him forget why kissing his friend (with benefits) in public was a bad idea, but everyone was probably too drunk to notice him and Hal going at it like teenagers. The engaged couple was busy necking and Clark had sobered up enough to feel his loneliness set in when Barry started to goad Diana.

“I did say that didn’t I?” she broke away from Steve long enough to form a sentence, “well, allow me to correct myself,” her vowels slurred together a bit, “I’ll never date a little boy pretending to be a man. He must prove himself.”

“Ah shit!” Hal’s exclamation echoed through the quieted room, “I’m a bit hurt Di. I thought we were friends.”

Hal was definitely gone if his flopping around the chair routine was anything to go by.

Clark felt a giggle slip through his lips.

“Be a man,” he sang wobbly and completely off key.

“Must be swift as the coursing river!” Arthur belted out.

“Be a man!”

Oliver slurred, “With all the force of a great typhoon!”

“Be a man!”

“With all the strength of a raging fire!”

“Mysterious as the dark side of the moon!” the whole room sang and fell into drunken laughter.

Clark was feeling the buzz of the new glass of whiskey? Vodka? He had no idea what he was drinking but it was damn good.

The last thing he remembered was hearing Oliver speak.

“Hey guys!” Oliver voice rang out loud and clear, sealing the entire room fate with his next damning words, “let's go get tattoos!”

* * *

 

His head felt like a construction site, his mouth was the Sahara, a shark was gnawing at his upper left back and someone was shining a laser pointer in his eyes.

“Hnnn.”

He tried to move, mainly to get the laser out of his face, but it was a damn big pointer.

“Turn off the light,” he tried to say but his tongue refuse to cooperate.

He closed his eyes tighter and tried to go back to sleep.

The next time he gained consciousness his head only felt like a sledgehammer slammed into it and not the whole site, and the laser pointer intensity had decrease. His shoulder still hurt like hell though. Cracking open one eye, he was privy to a few things; the giant laser was probably the sun, he was no longer in the club, or at least no longer in the VIP lounge and that that ache was becoming more insistence.

“Good, you're up. Here.”

Clark happily took the water.

“What-” he broke into coughs.

“Relax, you recognize where you are, don’t you? We're at Ollie’s.”

He glanced around the room, if something this big can even be called a room, to see the rest of the bachelor and bachelorette party spread out on various furniture and spaces on the floor in varying states of consciousness. He was draped across a sofa that most likely cost more than three months of his rent, if that cheap. The floor to ceiling continuous windows on the east wall gave a beautiful view of Star City, all its buildings, workings and people. He didn't remember being in Star city last night, but then, he didn't remember much of last night.

“Where's our gracious host?” he croaked.

“Who Ollie? He’s getting chewed out by our lovely bride-to-be. Serves him right,” Zatanna's grin was evil and she looked annoyed.

“What! Why? What did he do!?” Clark was shocked. Diana had been in such a good mood lately, letting so many vexing things slide. What could Ollie possibly do to annoy her a week before her big day?

Zatanna looked disapproving, “Don't you remember anything from last night?””

“Umm no. not really. What happened-”

Then it clicked, like a latch dropping into its rightful place. His back throbbed in agreement.

“Oh my god! I’m gonna kill him!”

* * *

 

“It's not that bad. At least you can cover yours. I don't have that fucking luxury,” Arthur’s sour mood reflected the whole room’s. They had all ended up with some form of tattoo or piercing, and in some cases, both. That might have been fine, but the piercings all looked one step away from infection as did the tattoos, which also had the added bonus of being shoddy.

Clark checked in on the not so happy couple to find out that poor Diana was allergic to the surgical steel bar in her right ear while her husband-to-be bottom lip sported a bright green ring and his forearm had a horrible D+S forever printed across it.  He figured the soon to be newlyweds were pretty damn pissed at this. As was everyone else in the wedding party.

Clark was mostly embarrassed. He’d always laugh at the stories of people getting drunk and waking up with a bad tattoo. Now that he was living it, he wasn't laughing.

Because it was just that horrible. The only reprise was as Arthur said; he could cover it up easily unlike the giant (terrible) fish on Arthur’s neck. Clark sighed, after he strangles Oliver, he had to make sure Lois never finds out about this.

* * *

 

He saw where his fellow friends discreetly covered up last week failures, whether it was with concealer or a last minute hairstyle change. Yet, the wedding was flawless despite the major disaster of most of the wedding party. Steve spent the entire ceremony gawking at his wife, but he couldn't be blamed, Diana looked like a princess from some faraway island. Within the week, the couple somehow managed to sort out the messes on their faces. That was the good thing about piercings, they weren't exactly permanent.

He smiled whole night at the happy couple and the guests, especially the handsome one with blue tipped hair. The smile turned to a grimace when an unscrupulous politician slapped him too hard on his left shoulder.

* * *

“I think I have all I need, this article’s gonna be the best one in the series. Thank you so much Barry!”

Laughter filled to room, “‘Course Clark! Anything for a friend! Speaking of friends-”

Clark jumped at the sudden bang, “Uncle Barry! I’m home!”

Wally strolled in, his arms around another young man.

“Wally! What have I told you about slamming my do- oh hi Dick!”

“Hey Uncle Barry,” Dick grinned. As Clark looked at the long hair and tattoos covering the boy’s skin he felt a sharp pang of regret for his shoulder. If only his was as half as good as one of those on Dick’s skin.

Wally caught him staring.

“Oh,” a mischievous grin appeared on the redhead’s face, “hey D! You know how I told you I had a wedding to go to last Sunday? Well the whole wedding party the week before got some horrible tattoos. Like first class shi-”

“Language.” Barry ordered sternly.

“I’m twenty two!” Wally protested, “Any who, can you do anything for them? Because I’m thinking about disowning my loving uncle here.”

“Yeah sure! Actually, some of them have already passed by the shop to get them fix. You wouldn’t happen to be in need of some help?” Dick baby blues turned towards Clark.

“Ummm, yeah?”

“Great!”

Dick flicked a business card towards him.

“Give us a visit! If you don't see me when you arrive, tell them I sent you”

* * *

 

Clark was afraid.

“What are you afraid of Smallville, think they'll make it worse? Honestly, anything’s an improvement over that!”

Of course Lois was probably right about that, but Clark wasn’t only worried about that. Gotham was the crime capital of the country. He wasn't sure about walking into his sister city just to fix a tattoo. Besides, he didn't want to risk infection. He surprisingly got off free the first time; he didn't want to jinx it a second time.

“Just go Clark,” Lois had said between giggles. Sometimes, he really hated his friends.

* * *

 

“Excuse me! Hi umm, where’s Park Row?”

“Oh… ummm, take a left, then a right, walk down the street,” a long pause, “then a left then two rights then you'll see the circular, then a left again. You can't miss it. It’s a really big alley.”

“Right…”

Gotham was truly a confusing city.  Clark stumbled through tonnes of streets before finding the brightly lit alley and the even brighter store. He entered, a bell ringing above his head like a cliché that didn’t really fit a tattoo parlor. The place looked clean, with its stainless steel finish and monotonous walls. The blandness was broken up by the beautiful artwork covering every possible inch of the place. He was currently the only customer.

“Hi?”

“Hello,” the guy straighten the collar of his leather jacket, “what can I get ya?”

“Umm Dick sad that-”

“Dick? Ohh priority customer,” the guy snickered. The white streak in his hair glowed as did the visible tattoos on his neck.

“I- I don't-”

“Ignore him,” another voice said, “Dick sent you?”

This boy was pale and small and had a singular tiny tattoo on his upper forearm.

“Yeah.”

“Are you one of the guys from the wedding party?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. I’m Tim. let's get you fixed up.”

“Bruce! We got another wedding fool to work on!” the first boy called out.

Clark still wasn't sure in his decision to come here.

* * *

 

Clark may have been gawking because apparently, Bruce was the hella handsome guy with blue tipped hair he saw in at the reception.   

Bruce raised an eyebrow at Clark’s obvious staring, “hello mister…”

“Kent. Clark Kent.”

“Well Mister Kent, let’s see what we have to work with.”

Clark tried (and failed) not to blush too much as he took off his shirt. He heard the gasp of surprise as the room got a good look at atrocity they had to deal with.

“My god. I do hope you didn't pay for this,” Bruce exhaled.

“I- no. Oliver, the instigator of this whole tattoo thing paid I think.”

“Good.”

Bruce frowned and Clark tried not to wince as the gorgeous man examined his back.

It truly embodied the meaning of shitty tattoo.

It was a wobbly, thin, black S surrounded by an equally wobbly, thin, black, lopsided pentagon. The whole thing looked like someone using Microsoft paint for the first time.

It was nothing like what he originally wanted.

“Let us step into my office and speak a little more about what you really want. Because it definitely isn't this.”

Clark breathed a sigh of relief.

“That sounds wonderful.”

* * *

“Like so” Clark pulled out a copy of his birth family crest.

Bruce whistled, “that's, definitely not what’s on you back. Yeah, I could do that, now if you really want it like that gorgeous.”

“I-what?”

Bruce smirked, eyes sparking, “I said-”

“I- I heard.” Clark face was flushed, “why won’t I want it like that?”

“Well, if you want to add anything else…”

“Oh. Can I?”

A chuckle, “Of course you can. It's your tattoo.”

“Oh, well, can it look like it's printed on a cape? Or some piece of fabric? I know it's stupid-”

“Getting my mother is my angle tattooed on your arm is stupid. This isn't. Anything else?”

Can the cape fade from blue to red? Or red to blue? And can it end in yellow? Like corn. And say the word Kent somewhere?”

“You want your name tattooed on your back?”

“I want my adoptive parents name tattooed next to my birth parent symbol,” Clark corrected.

“Ahh. And the corn?”

“I’m from Kansas-”

Another chuckle, “say no more farm boy. I'll see what I can do. Just to note gorgeous, this is a cover up so the colours would be a bit dark, even black, especially around the original tattoo. Plus this would take multiple sessions depending on your pain tolerance and how big the tattoo is, I’m thinking, from the top of your shoulder to about mid back? Sticking mostly to the left?”

“That sounds- that sounds perfect.”

“Don’t worry, “the smile was wiry, “I’m a professional.”

“I... never said you weren't.”

“Great. Your email address? I'll send the sketches to you. You'll pick your favourite.”

Clark scribbled his email in a book.

“Also you number. Don't worry gorgeous, I’ll only use it for work. As I said before, I’m a professional.”

* * *

Clark waited anxiously for the ping that signalled a new email. He was trying to calm himself; Bruce had said he'd contact him in three to five days. It had only been two; Bruce probably hadn't even started to think of creating a design from the crazy nonsense he had sprouted. Still, he waited and dived at the phone as soon as he got a notification, but it was only Apple advertising some new product to buy.

He guessed the email would be coming through tonight. Disappointed, he went to sleep.

He woke up the next morning to an email, an email filled with some of the most beautiful sketches he had every laid his eyes on. Clark sat with his cappuccino, eyes skimming through the artwork, each piece having a time estimate and cost next to them, until his eyes landed on one. That one. The most expensive, time consuming complicated one. The one that Clark wanted covering that monstrosity and half his back.

He shot a text to Bruce (hoping he wasn't breaking some etiquette rule) with the picture and two words

_That one_ **.**

* * *

 

“Sure you want that one gorgeous? I'll admit, I was letting my imagination run a bit while drawing that. And it's really big. How's your pain tolerance?” Bruce’s Gotham twang warmed Clark that early morning. He was nervous again, but the excitement outweighed any butterflies.

“It's okay. I have pretty tough skin.”

“Alright big guy, if you're sure, let’s get started. Strip.”

Clark flushed and stumbled to take off his clothing.

He didn't have a crush on his tattoo artist, even if the man insisted on calling him gorgeous (and if he did, well that wasn't anyone’s business.)

* * *

 

Sitting in the tattoo shop had honestly become one of Clark’s favourite pastimes. Mostly because he and Bruce somehow became the best of friends, despite being polar opposites. Plus, he got to sit and watch Bruce work, mapping out his skin, the visible tattoos and piercings. All his stresses melted away under Bruce’s hands.  Clark wondered how it would feel to touch Bruce’s biceps, to run his tongue across the shell of his ear, across the-

“-different names? Really? I thought they were all just called ear piercings.”

A mini break had become a piercing lecture.

“God no Clark! If they were all called ear piercings, how would you differentiate?”

“...by stating the position...I... don't think that through to be honest.”

“Hmmm. well, they do have different names. For instance, the seven studs running up my right ear here is called a graduated lobe piercing. This one here is rook and this one is called tragus. Same thing on the left, but I also got an industrial and a helix. And well obviously, I got an eyebrow piercing”

“Huh, right.”

“I lost you didn’t I?”

“Yep.”

“No matter, I’ll give you a private lesson sometime.”

Bruce didn't even Clark time to process that statement before pressing the needle against his skin.

* * *

 

“I like your tattoos.”

Bruce grunted. Clark resisted flinching. Sure he had a high pain tolerance but ouch, Bruce was an unforgiving taskmaster sometimes. His back hurts. He needed something to distract him from the pain.

Bruce wasn't covered like many artists he’d seen; he had just a few pieces of ink here and there.

“So, they have any meaning or are they just because you like them.”

“Mostly the former.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce rested down the gun and stretched which Clark appreciated both on an aesthetic level and on a ‘oh my god sweet painless bliss’ level.

“These represent my children, all my little bats and robins. All close to my heart, or at least on the arm close to my heart,” he gestured to the small silhouette of little birds and bats running down his arm. A black bat. A Blue, a red, a yellow and a green bird in quick succession. Another black bat, but much smaller. A purple bird and a red bat to end them all. They were all in flight, curving down from the inside of his upper arm to mid forearm.

On the same arm there was a tiny moustache on his inner wrist.

“That’s Alfred. He raised me after my parents’ death.”

Bruce raised his T-shirt, and Clark barely managed to focus on the other tiny piece of ink over Bruce’s heart and not at all the abs on display.

“My parents’ death date and time. First tattoo I got actually.”

Sure enough, the tattoo consisted of tiny numbers with dots separating them.

Clark stared at the date.

“That...was a while ago. How old were you-”

“Eight. They were shot in front of me.”

Clark’s heart bled,

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. And you?”

“Oh, my birth parents died when I was a baby. I never knew them.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's ok.”

The silence in the room was heavy.

“This got… gloomy pretty quick,” Bruce frowned before changing the subject, “I'm planning another tattoo. Not sure of what yet, but I want it to be a big one. On my back, like yours.”

Clark lip twitched, “You would look great.”

* * *

 

“Damn Clark, I mean, they all went for cover ups but nothing quite like that. Wow. Where did you go?”

“Same place Barry, Steve and your wife went.”

Oliver blinked, “Yeah that makes sense honestly. They do some pretty good art. But the others didn’t go for something that big. I think I’ll go for that size when Dinah finally lets me cover this shit up. Like honestly, I’ve said I’m sorry for influencing all you drunken asses to get tattoos. What more does she want?”

Clark looked around at the others at the Fourth of July barbeque. His impulse wear of a red white and blue muscle tee generously showed off parts of his tattoo and he'd gotten tons of amazed stares, complements, and claps on the back from his friends. It was nice, but every mention of the ink on his back reminded him that six weeks after his last session, he still had a hopeless crush on Bruce, which was not so nice.

“Blood. She wants blood.”

* * *

 

It was a beauty. The background of the tattoo was a smooth and shiny fabric. It bunched at his shoulders and folds fell across to the left, like a cape blowing in the wind. The fabric transitioned from red at the shoulders to blue lower down, to yellow at the bottom.

In the middle of the ‘cape’, his birth family crest stood respectfully, unlike its first version. The ‘S’ faded from dark blue on the red fabric, to almost crimson on the blue. The edges of the fabric faded out lighter and lighter till the fabric folds and colour were gone.

At the bottom, the yellow fabric became a row of corn, green stalks waving in the wind. The corn seemed to fade into the background while a flaking red mailbox with the word Kent scrawled across in black bold cursive took the forefront.

The tattoo spanned his whole left and centre back, the far edges barely touching the right side of his back and draped from shoulder to lower back. Clark loved it, the way combined both of his families into one simple space, the way it highlighted the special people in his life. Well, some of them at least.

* * *

 

He was back in front of the tattoo shop because he'd gotten tired of Lois insulting him.

“Look at you Smallville, heartbroken over someone who wasn’t even yours. Pathetic. At least try before you mope.”

Which is why Wednesday afternoon found him walking into a room filled of waiting customers, a few of the kids, and the man himself.

“Clark, it's nice to see you. Wait, is something wrong? Do you need-”

“No. no. nothing like that. I was just- I was- So, I was thinking… if you're free Friday night…” Clark trailed off at the amused look on Bruce’s face and the giggling kids in the background (he’d stop keeping track of them after one threaten to stab him with a needle and pump his face fill of ink), “...unless all your flirting was a joke and I’m a-”

“Idiot? No. never you.”

Bruce took Clark’s hand in his and kissed it, the old fashioned gesture had Clark blushing from the roots of his hair.

“Friday sounds perfect.”

* * *

 

In the end, Clark really didn't hate Oliver for suggesting to his drunkass self that getting a tattoo at three am was a good idea. After all, that shitty tattoo got him Bruce.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me how it was!!


End file.
